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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25148089">And In That End, A Beginning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SampahMasyarakat/pseuds/SampahMasyarakat'>SampahMasyarakat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Historical RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Clones, HAHAHA WHAT THE HELL DID I WRITE, Historical Inaccuracy, IM SORRY MY EIGHT GRADE CIVICS TEACHER THIS IS WHAT I DID INSTEAD OF LISTENING TO THE PRESENTATION, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Major Character Undeath, REALLY THERE'S NOTHING I CAN SAY EXCEPT IT FEELS LIKE IM ON ACID WHILE WRITING THIS, Suicide, attempt at slow burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:07:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,468</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25148089</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SampahMasyarakat/pseuds/SampahMasyarakat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon is an immortal and Daendels died in May 2, 1818.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Herman Willem Daendels/Napoleon Bonaparte</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>And In That End, A Beginning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>WARNING : HISTORICAL INACCURACIES</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The moment Daendel’s head fell down, Napoleon knew he wasn’t made for happiness.</p><p> </p><p>Napoleon couldn’t die before he’s satisfied, yet what he didn’t realize at the time was that great men willingly walk the opposite of satisfaction. That was what Daendels said below the wilting trees of fall, bayonette forgotten between the kisses they shared. Napoleon refused to believe the truth spoken from his lips, still believing himself to be worthy of a satisfaction greater than death. Napoleon whispered to Daendels ears, that his satisfaction lies in the nights he spent with him.</p><p>His laughter rang like the church bells from a distant memories, sweeter than the peaches of Languedoc-Roussillon. In Daendel’s fingers was his heart and soul, and Napoleon felt whole as Daendels pulled him closer, their body heat mingling with each others. Warm, warmer, warmer than a summer’s day, warmer than the burning buildings of paris, the warmest Napoleon had ever felt.</p><p>Such was the memories of the past.</p><p> </p><p>Napoleon gave up on chasing that satisfaction, choosing a life of death rather than leaving Daendel’s cemetery behind.</p><p>He was right, Napoleon was never able to touch that same warmness again, only an artificial one built upon the atrocities of history.</p><p>Artificial, yes that was the word.</p><p>Napoleon’s reality lies between those years of revolution, years of history forgotten by time. To him, everything else after Daendel’s death was all artificial.</p><p> </p><p>Napoleon remembered when he crossed the river with Daendels, a memory blurred at the edges, colourfully monochromatic in it’s visage. The rocking boat beneath them connects the dead and the living, connecting Napoleon and Daendels. The waters became the song in which Daendels is painted with, Daendels and the river was one and the other, one and the same.</p><p>Napoelon knew he himself cannot pass the river, he can only hold Daendel’s hands before he has to drown. So Napoleon held his hands tighter, letting himself kiss the rough edges of his trigger hardened fingers, letting himself touch his forehead to Daendels’, feeling the warmth, feeling the coldness, feeling everything and nothing.</p><p>The boat rocks with his conflicting emotions, mocking and comforting, loving yet filled with hatred.</p><p>Daendels crossed the river two times, each of them with Napoleon opposite of him. The first time was when the war had ended, Daendels decided on their bed that they’re going on an adventure. Napoleon loved to humor his lover so they went. They’re off somewhere, sometime, something magical in those moments spent staring at Daendels staring at him. Daendels basking in the golden light, ethereal and holy unlike mortals, and when Napoleon reached up to brush a strand of hair out of his eyes, Napoleon decided that Daendels was satisfaction.</p><p>The second time, Daendels wasn’t breathing. Daendels didn’t decide that they're going on an adventure. Daendels wasn’t basked in the golden light, instead opting to lie between the greys of death. They didn’t go somewhere, sometime. Daendels did. Napoleon could only watch as his lover, the only one who could complete Napoleon, drowns below the waters, going somewhere, sometime.</p><p>The river styx was beautiful, colourfully monochromatic, disturbing the kind and rigid waters, drawing an abstract painting full of browns and golds, blurred at the edges. Napoleon wished he can cross it too, at least to make sure Daendels wasn’t lonely and to tend to his mangled heart. Death didn’t let him in, he got blacklisted a long time ago, Napoleon’s destiny is to wander around the river, not drown in it.</p><p>His world rocked along with the boat. Now he’s alone, going nowhere, while time flies like dying stars.</p><p> </p><p>Napoleon knew.</p><p>He stood before Daendels' century old cemetery.</p><p>Napoleon knew.</p><p>The smell of old earth fills his nostrils as he dug deeper, deeper, until he hits rotting wood.</p><p>Napoleon knew.</p><p>This wasn’t Daendels' place to rest. What’s left of him was bones and dirt. The last vestiges of Daendels lived inside of his memories and dreams. It was the last place Daendels will be alive. The world had moved on, time has decided that Daendel’s was to live only by his name in history books, earth has decided that Daendels was going to return to them, Daendels sounds more like a myth rather than someone who kissed Napoleon under those wilting trees of fall.</p><p>Napoleon knew he wasn’t supposed to do this.</p><p>When he saw the man—no, Daendels—opened his eyes, Napoleon felt whole again, even if the inside of his mouth felt like plastic and a dread living in his stomach rear it’s ugly head to life.</p><p> </p><p>“Where do you want to go?” The rain pelted the windows. Daendels hummed and let the book clatter to the bed, ruffling his clothes beyond what’s socially acceptable. Napoleon brushed a stray strand from Daendels’ eyes, his brown eyes looking straight to Napoleon’s. Time never stopped for men, but Napoleon was not a man. So time gladly stopped when Daendels reached to cup his cheeks and smiled like tomorrow was something to be looked forward to.</p><p>“Somewhere, sometime. As long as it’s what you wanted.”</p><p>Oh how many times Napoleon has heard those words, yet all he can do is repeat everything. Cycles, circles, everything will come to an end, and in that end, a beginning. Daendels will live and Daendels will die. But the question was which Daendels and when.</p><p> </p><p>Napoleon stared at the circular window above him, the blue hues of the moon feels cold, or maybe that’s the marble floors, or maybe it’s his heart. It all feels so cold.</p><p>They used to dance in the same place, exactly beneath the moonlight. Shadows clinging to their clothes as they flitted away with each other, clumsily stepping on each other as the world danced in black and white. Secrets, Napoleon thought, secrets are what this place brings.</p><p>
  <em>“Ow.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Sorry, we’re really bad at this.”</em>
</p><p>Men like us were made for war, Napoleon repeated the words he didn’t say in his head. Daendels didn’t reply, only another sharp phantom pain on his foot to remind Napoleon that Daendels was never there all along.</p><p>The floor feels cold, this must be what death feels like.</p><p>
  <em>“Napoleon, would you hold me until midnight?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Until midnight, everything is ours.”</em>
</p><p>Napoleon closed his eyes and drowns in his memories.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“..Are you there?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“...I’m here.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hold me Napoleon.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Napoleon... I’ve always l-“</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Napoleon watched as Daendels stepped out of the tube, wide-eyed and beautiful. If Sandro Botticeli was alive, Napoleon was sure his angels would have been drawn as Daendels. Daendels took a shaky step and Napoleon reached up to hold the trembling body, smelling the harsh and sharp blue translucent liquid sticking to Daendels’ skin.</p><p>Napoleon watched as he takes a breath, and his chest deflates. Another one, Napoleon carried the half awake Daendels through the dark lab, each step ringing and ringing, just like the steps from those days below the gleaming moon.</p><p>Daendels doesn’t have enough energy to be the reality to Napoleon’s memories, but he will. After all, one cannot expect a newborn fowl to dance.</p><p>Napoleon kissed Daendels forehead, tasting bitterness in his tounge.</p><p>This must be what love feels like.</p><p> </p><p>Step. Step. Step.</p><p>Napoleon returns, walking down with another Daendels in his arms. This time coloured in red. Sticky and past-like, a phantom from his memories. It didn’t reminded him of Daendels, just the dread and emptiness caterwauling like a cosmic horror.</p><p>Napoleon’s hands was still wet, a last effort to keep the light from leaving the Daendels’ eyes. It was futile, always. They never ended up breathing. Sometimes Napoleon asked himself why he still kept the papers on his table, but he can’t answer those questions. If he answered, he’ll have to face his fears. It's better to leave the artificial for his memories.</p><p>No, Daendels is still alive. He’s still there. No, he’s still alive. This one didn’t slit his throat. No, Daendels is still in Napoleon’s arms.</p><p>Napoleon lets Daendels down a bed of flowers, eyes trained to ignore all the other rotting Daendels that followed the same fate.</p><p>Another body. Another loss. Another end, and in that end, a beginning.</p><p> </p><p>Napoleon tries to cover up the hole in his heart with plastic, reviving and watching it all rot like wilting trees of fall. Daendels still slips away from his fingers like water, it’ll never work. Cycles, circles. Men who devoted their lives to war was never meant for happiness nor satisfaction, yet Napoleon still lives. He’s still waiting, somewhere, sometime. Waiting for Daendels to cross the river with him, waiting for Daendels to dance with him once more inside of that empty ballroom, waiting for the bitterness in his mouth to go away, waiting for an end.</p><p>This must be what living feels like.</p><p> </p><p>Napoleon always knew he was never meant for happiness.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to Perennials for inspiring me to pick this idea up again, I've always thought of this idea as a crack fic idea, and in the end I ended up writing it seriously. I've had fun writing abstract imageries and I'm not sure If people would understand what I'm trying to tell, but I love how weird this is. This is probably the most avant-garde shit I've written amongst all the other fics. Thank you to my friends that complimented and read the river scene, I'm really proud of that one.</p><p>If this confused you, Napoleon is an immortal that loves Daendels, Daendels died in the guillotine (not true, he died from malaria, again, I didn't pay attention in history and instead wrote this) and Napoleon couldn't move on, so he cloned Daendels and relived all of his memories with clone Daendels. Clone Daendels would always find out that they were cloned and kill themselves, then Napoleon cloned Daendels again. </p><p>The first idea came from me being bored at a history presentation and writing a sm/ut napoleon x daendels, then at a field trip I evolved the idea onto this monstrosity. Also thanks to my civics teacher.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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